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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772142">Arabella</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamaybeenchanted/pseuds/ellamaybeenchanted'>ellamaybeenchanted</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Mandalorian (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Bounty Hunters, Drug Dealing, F/M, Julia Jones is Hot so I'm treating Omera as Notably Hot, Los Angeles, Minor Violence, Omera is a badass, Swearing, author has a crush on Pedro Pascal and requires outlet for it, but also this is mostly from Din's POV so like... duh, don't worry ok the kids will be in it at some point, other such crimes, shoutout arctic monkeys for the vibes, slightly more gruff din djarin, think of a mix between din and Javier Peña from narcos, truly this is a Mandalorian fic with a Narcos aesthetic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:14:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,822</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772142</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamaybeenchanted/pseuds/ellamaybeenchanted</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s common knowledge to the masses that occupy Los Angeles’s seedy, criminal underbelly—at least, it is for the most part—that you simply do not fuck with the bounty hunter’s wife. </p><p>Someone should probably tell that to the Imperial Cartel.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>the 80's LA Vice AU that literally no one asked for<br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Din Djarin/Omera</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Baby I'm Yours</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>here is a set of Native-run organizations and businesses you can support in the LA area: https://lanaic.lacounty.gov/resources/indian-organizations/</p><p>here is an article which describes the current effort of Native American organizers/activist groups to stop the production of a copper mine on Apache land in Arizona: https://www.aljazeera.com/economy/2021/1/15/native-americans-try-to-block-us-move-to-give-land-to-rio-tinto</p><p>Glossary:<br/>"querida" = beloved, dear one<br/>"amor" = my love<br/>"mi corazón" = my heart<br/>"tío" = uncle, male friend<br/>"guagua" = chilean slang for "baby"</p><p>enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>My days end best when this sunset gets itself<br/>Behind that little lady sitting on the passenger side<br/>It's much less picturesque without her catching the light<br/>The horizon tries but it's just not as kind on the eyes</em>
</p><p>Arctic Monkeys – “Arabella”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It’s common knowledge to the masses that occupy Los Angeles’s seedy, criminal underbelly—at least, it is for the most part—that you simply do not fuck with the bounty hunter’s wife.  It’s information that’s been spread from drug dealer to bank robber; there’s not a criminal in the City of Angels that doesn’t know to keep their eyes and hands off of the Djarins, lest they reap the decidedly undesirable consequences.</p><p>Din Djarin is one mean, stone-cold motherfucker.  This is especially true when it comes to the following: picking up bounties, returning ransomed kidnap victims, or even the occasional hired muscle job (where all he has to do is stand in the background with his trademark leather jacket and reflective sunglasses, and pretty much everybody knows to keep their shit in line).  He has a figurative resumé a mile long, full of transactions with the dodgiest, most underground businesses in the sprawling city, and he suffers fools just about as far as he can throw them.  It’s a widely accepted fact amongst the backdoor channels and criminal operations of Los Angeles that Din Djarin is <em>dangerous</em>.</p><p>But you introduce his wife, Omera, to the picture?</p><p>The bastard purrs like a kitten.  It’s just about as close as anyone this side of town could come to a fairytale.</p><p>Omera Djarin owns a small flower shop called <em>Sorganics</em>, named after the tiny town of Sorgan, California, where she sources much of her product and inspiration from, as well as where she grew up.  She's quiet, and kind, and she'll offer you a cup of tea when you enter the shop, but don't let all that fool you—she's not just going to sit around and take anyone's shit, either.  She and Din lead an ostensibly tranquil life amidst the bustle and mayhem of the LA crowd, so it’s not entirely uncommon to see Din dropping off the occasional Sorganics order if Omera's too swamped or understaffed, neither is it uncommon for his car to smell like begonias while he’s picking up some low-level criminal off the street to deposit at the doorstep of his client. </p><p>It’s very nearly nauseating.  The two walk around L.A. like smitten newlyweds, almost always holding hands, or sometimes with Din’s arm wrapped snugly around Omera’s waist.</p><p>People who have known Din for years, even the likes of his best friend and colleague, Cara Dune, often wonder just what about this woman is so special that she’s managed to turn an unflinching killer into someone who helps out with…<em> a flower shop</em>… on a semi-regular basis.  A fellow bounty hunter once joked that she must have quite the <em>secret garden</em> between her legs if Din had gone as soft as it seemed, and he ended up with two broken femurs the following morning.</p><p>(It would later be amended that, no, Din was <em>not</em> going soft.)</p><p>Many have asked the obvious question: <em>flowers?</em>  I mean, really.  It’s 1981—the economy has gone to shit, Nancy Reagan is going from state to state in a futile campaign to convince teenagers not to smoke pot, the Cold War is still raging on in full-force, and everyone who’s not getting on their knees to kiss CIA boots is being put on some horseshit Communist watchlist.</p><p>
  <em>But sure, Djarin.  Let’s sully your reputation as a cutthroat mercenary with some hydrangeas.</em>
</p><p>The thing is that the people who ask these types of questions don’t understand one thing: a normal, uneventful life is only boring to those who have never seen it as a luxury.  For Din Djarin, who was forced to enter the foster care system in Los Angeles at the age of seven after his parents’ deaths, who was raised to steal or lie to secure his next meal, a flower shop is like hitting the life jackpot.</p><p>“Do you know what you want, <em>querida?”</em> Din asks as he places a hand on the back of Omera’s barstool, his thumb tracing small circles into the fabric of her white tank top.</p><p>On this particular muggy, summer evening, the couple sits in a small dive bar in Encino called “The Skug Hole.”  It’s a real backwater, hole-in-the-wall piece of shit, and the jukebox doesn’t even function unless you kick it at least three times per play, but it’s out of the way enough that they can usually stay out of trouble.</p><p>Usually.</p><p>Omera smiles back at him, a beatific little thing that makes his eyes go soft.  She loves it when he speaks to her in Spanish—she’s been trying to learn it herself for the past few months.  She’s told him it reminds her of those old, black-and-white classic movies when he calls her <em>querida </em>or <em>amor </em>or (as per recent weeks) <em>mi corazón</em>; he doesn’t know what movies she’s referring to, necessarily, but he has no problem playing along regardless.  On his part, whenever he uses the terms of endearment, he can’t help but remember those precious warm-hued memories from Chile—before his parents risked everything to flee the copper mines—when everyone was a <em>querida </em>or a <em>tío</em> or sometimes even the affectionate <em>guagua</em>.</p><p>“Just a rum and coke, I think,” she hums back.</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>Din waves the bartender over with a quick two-finger salute.  The man arrives with all of the beleaguered swagger of someone who might enjoy their work but doesn’t feel like he gets paid enough to do it—Din recognizes it immediately. “One rum and coke, and… whatever IPA you’ve got on draft.”</p><p>One of the many peculiarities about Din Djarin is that he doesn’t get drunk.  He knows how much of an abnormality that makes him, especially in his line of work, but he finds that drinking and drugs make people loose-lipped and unfocused, with their resolve weakened and their faculties at an all-time low.</p><p>Y’know, the kind of shit he really cannot afford to be.</p><p>The bartender nods briskly and leaves to start preparing their drinks.  In the meantime, Omera places her hand on his knee and leans in so her face is no more than a few inches away from his own, the scent of her lavender shampoo wafting into his nostrils with the downy sweep of her long, black hair.  For a brief, fleeting moment, he’s angry that they have to spend their time in a sleazy bar like this, when she’s so clearly out-of-place; a woman with her features belongs on billboards and movie screens, not sitting in a back-alley bar in Encino where at least thirty percent of the patrons have seen the inside of a prison cell within the past six months.  It’s not the first time—and probably won’t be the last—that his mind wanders in such a way.</p><p>“Thank you for taking me out tonight,” she whispers, evidently not careening helplessly forward on the same train of thought.  Din leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead.</p><p>“Of course.  You’ve had a rough day.”</p><p>It’s true: while Din was scouring door-to-door for the lowlife who had stolen a whopping seventeen thousand dollars from his client, Omera spent the day protesting the development of a resort complex on a plot of Cahuilla land, all the way out near Tahquitz Canyon, a couple hours’ drive.  As much as he would like her to stay as off-the-grid and out of sight as possible, Din knows that this is an immovable passion for his wife—and he respects the hell out of her for her commitment.  Omera herself is of Choctaw and Chickasaw descent; infringements upon Native land like this hit just a bit too close to home.  She takes these matters extremely seriously.</p><p>As any reasonable person should.</p><p>A few hours ago, before they decided to have a night out, she recounted to him her recent encounters with California State Troopers.  They apparently appeared like omens of death in the midst of the protest, and they apparently had no qualms about arresting and detaining peaceful protestors on the grounds that they were “trespassing” on private property, to which Din appropriately responded with swears and groans of ill-disguised ire.</p><p>It’s a wonder, really.  The cognitive dissonance of these police officers, to tell Native American protestors that <em>they’re </em>trespassing? </p><p>You can’t make this shit up.</p><p>Omera made it out of the protest unscathed but with a reignited passion to tell those officers—and, upon further reflection, the entire California state legislature—exactly where they can shove their resort complexes and condo blueprints.  They’d spent much of the day on the phone, planning their next moves, trying to coordinate which local organizers they knew would be in good shape to help lobby against the construction.</p><p>It’s quite the duality, Din knows, that right after he hung up the phone with his wife, he reached over to disassemble and clean the double-stack Beretta that sits in the glove compartment of his Camaro.  But life’s all about balance.</p><p> Two glasses arrive with a small <em>thud</em> in front of them after his words, the alcohol swishing belatedly from the force of the movement.  Din reaches out to place Omera’s in front of her before grabbing for his own.</p><p>“So,” Omera asks as she pinches the small red straw between her fingers in preparation to take a sip (Din took the liberty of swirling the straw around the glass for her only a few seconds prior, because he knows that if he doesn’t, she’ll get all rum and no coke), “any luck today?”</p><p>Din groans. “Yeah.  Long one, though.”</p><p>“Long one” is code for <em>I just chased a scumbag around the Valley for a paycheck that ought to have another zero attached to the end.</em></p><p>“I’m sorry, baby.” Omera gives him a sympathetic look.</p><p>He waves her off as he sips his beer.  It’s good…but not great.  Probably some Northeast domestic shit that costs two dollars per keg.  Essentially par for the course at The Skug Hole.</p><p>“Nothing I’m not used to.  <em>Now</em>,” Din’s eyes grow just the slightest bit darker, and his hand leaves the back of her chair in favor of full occupation on her back, which he knows makes her shiver in just the most <em>gorgeous</em> little way, “I’d much rather talk about how you’re the most beautiful woman at this bar by about fifteen miles.”</p><p>Omera laughs, which brings a frown to Din’s face.  He wasn’t joking.</p><p>“I’m serious, <em>querida</em>.  It’s almost criminal.”</p><p>Speaking of <em>almost criminal</em>, Din’s eyebrows furrow as he spots a guy at a booth roughly twenty feet over who he’s about eighty percent sure he’s shaken down at least twice for trying to swipe his wallet from him on La Cienega.  The man catches his eye and raises his glass with a shit-eating grin.</p><p>Again—par for the course.</p><p>“Darling,” Omera smiles at him bemusedly, as if to say, <em>you’re adorable when you’re delusional,</em> “I think you mean <em>oldest</em>.  Not one woman in here is older than twenty-five except for me.”</p><p>Din and Omera met five years ago, when she was thirty-one and he was thirty-three, herself living in El Paso and trying to make ends’ meet as a waitress while putting herself through community college, himself passing through on a somewhat risky job.  The bounty he’d been chasing tried to put the moves on her while she walked her dog, and she kneed him in the crotch in the middle of a public park.</p><p>It was pretty much over for Din at that moment.</p><p>Presently, the eye-roll he sends her in response is so intense it nearly forces his head to move in tandem.  The woman gets mistaken for a co-ed every other day, and she talks like this?</p><p>“…And you’re more beautiful than any of them on your worst day.”</p><p>“How do you say, ‘impaired judgement’ in Spanish?”</p><p>Yeah—he’s not telling her that.</p><p>Just as Din’s about to argue her own skewed lens of the subject—it’s his favorite argument, because he just gets to spend the whole time telling her how sexy she is and watching her blush—a hand claps down on his shoulder.  He’s reaching for the Glock tucked into his waistband before he even processes the interruption fully, but luckily, a familiar voice arrests the movement.</p><p>“Well, well, well!” The voice chuckles. “If it isn’t Mando!”</p><p><em>Oh, for fuck’s sake.  </em>Din groans internally.  <em>Can I have no peace?</em></p><p>It’s Greef Karga.</p><p>For some context: “Mando” is an incredibly annoying nickname that Din received from some asshat named Mayfield when they worked a job together about three years ago.  Shortly after they received their checks, Din asked Karga why the guy kept calling him that, and Karga roared with laughter.</p><p>“You don’t <em>know?!”</em> He asked as he wiped tears from his eyes.  When Din (now slightly agitated, it bears mentioning) replied that he didn’t, Karga wheezed, “it’s because you’re so quiet all the time, Djarin—it’s short for ‘Man Don’t Fuckin’ Talk.’”</p><p>Din thinks it’s extremely juvenile.  Omera thinks it’s hilarious.</p><p>“What are you doing here, Karga?” He sighs, indelicately throwing the other man’s hand from his shoulder with a rough jerk of his torso.  Anywhere Karga goes, trouble inevitably seems to follow, like a perverse little shadow that trails along the pavement behind him, hissing at babies and lying in wait to make some unwitting bounty hunter’s life a temporary hell.  Din sometimes thinks that’s why the older man hires him for so many jobs—he’s especially good at cleaning up other people’s messes, no matter how begrudgingly he may do it.</p><p>“Well, aren’t we charming tonight.” The man makes a point of looking offended, like he isn’t obviously there to talk shop. “Why do you assume I’m here on business? Can’t make a social call to a good friend in the area?”</p><p><em>Oh, fucking spare me</em>.</p><p>“Hi, Karga,” Omera says with a smile, albeit a weak one.</p><p>“Lovely to see you, Omera.  You’re looking well.”</p><p>Din’s had just about enough of this—he made it a whole three minutes, the absolute champion—so he cuts in sharply. “Cut the shit, Karga.  We both know you don’t make social calls.  Now, what do you want?”</p><p>To his credit, the older man doesn’t seem fazed at all by Din’s attitude—call it a built-up tolerance for such behavior after years and years of knowing each other.  It would be silly to be offended at the question when they both know he’s right.</p><p>Din has already braced for Karga’s next words by the time he opens his mouth.</p><p>“I’ve got a job for you.”</p><p>Omera bristles slightly next to him, and he places a calming hand over her own on the mahogany of the bar.  She intertwines their fingers, but they both keep their gazes trained on Karga, his gaze piercing while hers has an unmasked nervous edge. </p><p>Din understands her hesitation; the last time Karga came around and offered him a job in front of her, he came out of it with a bullet wound in his shoulder from some lieutenant in the Albanian mob with a borderline romantic passion for automatic weaponry.  She’d patched him up in the back of the flower shop, and the whole scene ran to the soundtrack of her sympathetic sniffles and the dulcet tones of him chugging Jack Daniels like water.</p><p>(The whole <em>no getting drunk </em>thing quickly becomes a moot point when one is already incapacitated and trying very hard not to wince at a very cold pair of tweezers entering their shoulder to chase a bullet lodged in some very petulant muscle tissue.)</p><p>Like he mentioned.  <em>Trouble</em>.</p><p>“I’m already on a job.” Din says flatly.  After a pause, he adds: “and I’ve told you before—I don’t talk business in front of my wife.”</p><p>Din makes no secret of the fact that he prefers to keep many of the finer points of his work away from Omera’s ears; not because he doesn’t trust her—he <em>does</em>—but because the less she hears, the less of a risk she’s at, and the better sleep he can get at night.</p><p>She’s never seemed to mind.  It’s one of those little things that makes him fall in love with her just a little bit more each day.</p><p>But enough sappy shit—there’s a man standing awkwardly at a bar with an unwanted proposition to deal with.</p><p>“That’s alright, my love,” Omera placates, pressing a swift kiss to his cheek that sets the skin aflame, “I have to use the bathroom, anyway.”</p><p>“Omera—”</p><p>But she’s already up, hopping down from her stool and flashing a cautious smile Karga’s way.  The older, mustachioed man returns it with a gleaming grin of his own, all sparkly white teeth and eyes that say, <em>of course I didn’t see anything, officer, the lights were off!</em></p><p>Din doesn’t miss the way his stare follows her as she makes her way across the room.  “You’re already on thin fucking ice, Karga. I’d suggest you stop checking out my wife’s ass if you want to walk out of here of your own volition.”</p><p>Karga has the decency to look abashed, if only for half a second.</p><p>“Hey, Mando,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender, “if you’re going to shoot every prick in this bar who’s ogling your wife, you might want to get a bigger gun.”</p><p>Begrudgingly, Din has to agree.  He hasn’t missed the other men’s gazes on Omera as she walked to the bathroom, either.  You’d think he’d be used to this shit by now.</p><p>He takes another gulp of his IPA. “You’ve got another two minutes before she comes back.  Talk.”</p><p>Karga sighs. “Strictly business, as usual.  Alright.” He takes a brief pause, as if preparing for an elevator pitch—which, in some ways, he is. “I know about the job you’re working.  The seventeen grand from that casino fucker in the Hills? It’s a bit small-time, don’t you think?”</p><p>This only elicits a grunt in response.  The job is admittedly less high-profile than Din would prefer, especially with the economy being what it is, but it’s also rather mild.  He’s only been working it for a few days and he already has an address for the motel where this particular fucker happens to be hiding out.  The plan is to pick up both the man and the paycheck in the morning.</p><p>“…And?”</p><p>“<em>And</em>,” Karga leans just a bit closer, his grin growing.  Din has to fight not to roll his eyes.  The man proceeds, “what if I were to tell you that the Imperial Cartel is willing to offer about <em>six times</em> that paycheck for the same man?”</p><p><em>The Imperial Cartel</em>.</p><p>At once, the room feels about thirty degrees cooler, and Din has to stifle the urge to sprint to the bar’s restroom and whisk Omera away from this place before Karga can get another disgusting word out and further sour what has so far been a very lovely evening.  He realizes his beer glass is being clutched in a white-knuckle grip in his left hand, which itself is frozen in midair, halfway between his mouth and the bar.  He sets it down and ignores the splash of beer that tips over the side of the glass and onto his hand.</p><p>“Karga,” he says slowly, “you know how I feel about Imps.”</p><p>If Karga’s noticed even the slightest indicator of his discomfort, he says nothing.  Instead, he plows on, looking undeniably pleased with himself: “Yeah, whatever—<em>anyway</em>, the call came in this morning! I could hardly believe it—nine thousand for the same piece of scum? <em>Phew</em>.”  He shakes his head fondly, a gesture to communicate, <em>this job sometimes, you know?</em> “I met with the contact this morning.  He didn’t give a ton of detail, but he said the motherfucker owes them a boatload of money—apparently enough to warrant outsourcing an Imperial manhunt.”</p><p>“Get Dune on it.”</p><p>“They don’t want Dune, you lucky son-of-a-bitch.  They specifically requested you.”</p><p>A horrible, sinking feeling entered Din’s stomach when Karga first said <em>Imperial</em>, and now it’s more like the fiery sear of white-hot adrenalin, sitting like magma in his stomach and threatening to erupt.</p><p>“What,” he growls, “do you mean?”</p><p>“Look, Mando.  I know you’ve taken some sort of moral high ground against working for them, but I also know how you feel about money.  And this much for someone you’re <em>already</em> tracking?” Karga scoffs. “C’mon.  Guys like us would turn in Mother Teresa for that kind of cash.”</p><p><em>I cannot strangle this man because of things he doesn’t know about</em>, Din says quietly to himself, <em>I cannot strangle this man because of things he doesn’t know about</em>.  He repeats it a few more times like a prayer before clearing the blockage in throat to answer.</p><p>“Do you know how long it’s been since I took a job for the Imps?”</p><p>Karga ponders for a moment. “Well,” he says at length, “I’d have to say probably about five years.”</p><p>“And do you know how long ago I met my wife?”</p><p>“… Five years, right? Wait—Djarin, what does Omera have to do with any of—”</p><p>Din’s patience snaps at the sound of his wife’s name, and he stands up to be at equal height with his old employer.  He’s already catalogued every exit in the bar, but now he’s scanning the room once more, casing the large space for vantage points and possible barricades.  The bar is thick and made of sturdy wood; the booths are flimsy and spaced too far apart to establish an advantage.</p><p>It’s a nervous habit.</p><p>Karga blinks at Din’s sudden movement. “…You alright, there, Djarin?”</p><p>“Listen closely and don’t fucking interrupt me,” he hisses darkly. “I’m only going to explain this once, and then neither of us are going to talk about it ever again.  Got it?”</p><p>Karga nods.  Din continues.</p><p>“Omera was a key witness in the DEA’s case against the Imperial Cartel almost twelve years ago.  She was young, she worked as a secretary at a firm they were using as a front, and she testified against them when she found some of their more…unsavory records in a back room—they’d been using child labor, killing cops, the whole nine.  Her entire office was being paid in drug money.”</p><p>Din isn’t sure he’s ever seen Karga’s eyes so wide.  The man opens his mouth to say something, but Din cuts him off. “I said <em>don’t interrupt me.</em>  Now—she told me this after we’d been dating a few weeks; guess she trusted me enough for some reason.  She’d been living under a false name for years, Leah something or whatever.  It’s still on all of her legal documents and ID’s, but she’s a Djarin now, anyway.  The point is—she’s part of the reason Moff Gideon’s behind bars, and he’s apparently never gotten over it.” </p><p>Memories and images assault the space behind his retinas, each one horrifying enough to send a searing anger coursing through his blood like a nauseating mental byline of his worst nightmares.  He sighs and rubs a tired hand over his face. “We’ve had a few close calls, but they’ve never gotten to her, and I’m gonna make sure they never fucking will.  So that means no jobs <em>for</em> them, <em>with</em> them, <em>about</em> them, whatever.  Do you get it? If they’re in, I’m out.”</p><p>By the time he’s finished, Karga is sinking down dazedly into the chair that Din himself was just occupying, and he looks rather shaken up.  But Din knows he won’t say a word to anyone.  If nothing else, Karga knows that Din will grant him a slow, excruciating death if word were to ever get out.</p><p>“We clear?”</p><p>The other man looks up at him, still seeming a bit dizzy, and nods slowly.  It should be enough to dispel the tension that’s settled uncomfortably between them—but there’s something off about Karga’s expression.</p><p>Around them, the bustle of the bar continues seamlessly, from the pouring of drinks to scattered bouts of raucous, excited laughter.  A familiar chill begins to spread up Din’s spine, leaving ice on each vertebra.  Karga is still silent—and pale—in front of him. </p><p>“What is it, Karga?” Din asks finally.  He feels the cool weight of the Glock digging into his hip.</p><p>“Well, I just…” The man looks stricken. “Something the contact said…”</p><p>Fear, tight and suffocating, grips Din like a rollercoaster harness strapped on three notches too tight. <em> Gear up, motherfucker.  You’re in for a ride.</em></p><p>His hands clench into fists as he stares at his old friend. “What?”</p><p>“He said—well, he <em>mentioned</em>…”</p><p>“Spit it out, Karga, I swear to fucking god.”</p><p>In all of their years of knowing each other, Din isn’t sure he’s seen the other man look like this; he can’t even place the expression.  Nerves? Fear? <em>Guilt?</em></p><p>Karga finally sighs as he sends both hands north to massage his temples. “He said… He said you’ve got a beautiful wife, and he’d love to find someone like her one day.”</p><p>At once, Din’s blood is ice; his muscles are lead.</p><p>
  <em>He said he’d love to find someone like her one day.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’d love to find her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The Imps are going to find her.</em>
</p><p>A sudden, horrifying thought overwhelms any response Din was about to give to Karga’s information.  It hits him like a MAC truck—he has to grip the bar to keep himself upright for the briefest of moments before spinning around on his heel to scan the room as he’s seized with panic.</p><p><em>Omera should be out of the bathroom by now</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>let me know what you think! this was a ton of fun to write. I know Din's a little OOC, but honestly I just want to fit him into the 80's vice world, don't worry I'm 100% sure he can still be a softie when needed</p><p>historical stuff:<br/>1. were Berettas a thing in the 80s? I've got no fuckin clue, but for the purposes of the story, please attempt to suspend all disbelief<br/>2. copper mines were indeed a big thing in Chile in the 50's and 60's, before the "long 1960s" and before Eduardo Frei was elected, and they (along with nitrate production) were a lynchpin in the Chilean economy.  They required a lot of brutal labor, though.<br/>3. Nancy Reagan didn't coin the phrase "just say no" until 1982, but to my knowledge she was indeed going around yelling at people not to smoke weed before then (instead of, yknow, addressing the public health crisis of drugs lol)<br/>4. the Chilean slang mentioned (specifically 'guagua') may be more contemporary than the period, but unfortunately I do not live there, and my Spanish is not Chilean Spanish, so I can't speak to the historical accuracy. if anyone does know 1950s/60s Chilean slang, I'd be happy to incorporate it into Din's lexicon<br/>5. this isn't historical, but! Julia Jones is indeed Choctaw/Chickasaw, and Pedro Pascal is indeed Chilean.  That is the basis of their nationalities here.</p><p>woohoo! leave a comment please, it's motivating!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. When the Sun Goes Down</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>shit goes down in town</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>***PLEASE READ***</p><p>Hi, all.  Sorry for the delay on this chapter - I actually wrote an entire chapter for this story and then scrapped it, which is why it's taken so long.</p><p>The reason for this is that my original plan for this story was for Omera to get abducted by the Imperial Cartel and then proceed to a mixture of herself and Din fighting their way against various Imp subsidiaries until they meet in the middle, back with each other. I have since completely changed this, as you will see. </p><p>The trouble with my original plot is that it has extremely harmful implications that I was remiss in ignoring (be it intentionally or not) when writing. In a world where Native American/First Nation women are kidnapped and murdered at a horrifically high rate, and the police/government do little to nothing in order to investigate their cases, it is irresponsible and harmful for me to propagate such a narrative by writing an entire plotline in which a Native American woman is abducted, especially as a non-Native writer. I refuse to fictionalize such an event at the risk of trivializing the trauma and pain that exists around it.  Fiction, fan work included, does not exist in a vacuum; there are real contexts and consequences to what we write.</p><p>I've compiled a list of resources for those who wish to learn more and try to help the #NoMoreStolenSisters national campaigns. It is essential that non-Native allies carry this mantle and aid in whatever ways we can. The systemic injustice of MMIW (Missing and Murdered Indigenous Woman) needs to be addressed across the US and Canada. These resources can be found here:</p><p>https://equalmeansequal.org/blog/no-stolen-sisters-need-action/</p><p>https://www.amnesty.ca/our-work/campaigns/no-more-stolen-sisters (for Canada)</p><p>https://www.nativewomenswilderness.org/mmiw </p><p>https://www.greenpeace.org/usa/justice-for-missing-and-murdered-indigenous-women-will-move-us-closer-to-climate-justice/ </p><p>Thank you for your understanding. This does mean that I will be flying by the seat of my pants a bit more with regard to the story, but I am happy to do so. I wanted to clarify this change given the implications and expectations set in Chapter one. I'm sorry for any confusion caused.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>He must be up to something<br/>Want half a chance to show he's more than likely<br/>I've got a feeling in my stomach<br/>I start to wonder what his story might be</em>
</p><p>Arctic Monkeys – “When The Sun Goes Down”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Din doesn’t even bother to tell Karga what he’s doing when he sets off in a sprint toward the back corner of the bar, where he knows the restrooms are tucked away.  Alarm bells are sounding, gunshots firing in the warzone of his mind; he pushes it all aside to focus on one desperate, revolving thought.  <em>Omera.</em></p><p>Find Omera.  Kill anyone that gets in his way.</p><p>When Din was a bachelor, only those five years ago, he couldn’t help but think that the ridiculous sort of desperation that he often witnessed from couples—on jobs, on television, on the street—had to be, at least partially, for show.  It was almost uncomfortable to witness, sometimes, the way that two people would be so wrapped up in each other that they’d forget the world was still turning around them.  He’d never been one to abide by the behavior if he could avoid it.  Affection, romantic or otherwise, seemed like an alien sort of performance, and one in which he’d never participate.</p><p>Call it what it was: he was raised to understand that human interaction is largely transactional, that people want something from you, and the second they get it—they’re gone. </p><p>It’s what makes him such a good bounty hunter.</p><p>So, on that one day in El Paso, Texas, when he offered to buy that beautiful, fiery, warm-eyed woman a drink by way of apologizing for the trouble his bounty had caused her? He never could have expected the magnitude of feelings of which he’d one day be capable.  It was like his life jolted to a stuttered pause and then restarted once more, this time in vibrant technicolor, each hue so bright and novel that he couldn’t help but stare, open-mouthed, in amazement.</p><p>
  <em>“Move!”</em>
</p><p>Din pushes through the throng of Skug Hole bar-goers with no mind to their obvious (and vocal) discomfort, Karga hot on his heels. </p><p>“OMERA!” He shouts, one hand gripping his gun, the other shoving patrons out of his way.  He hears Karga apologizing to them in his wake, but he knows the other man well enough to know that he has his gun drawn as well, probably in a straight-armed grip pointing toward the floor, one of the lasting vestiges of his Marine Corps training. <em>“OMERA!”</em></p><p>The dread pools higher and higher in his stomach the closer he gets to the restroom.  There’s a dangerous part of his brain, whichever cortex controls his fight-or-flight instincts, that continues to shove thought after intrusive thought to the forefront of his consciousness.</p><p><em>What if you’re too late,</em> it whispers, <em>what if she’s already dead?</em></p><p><em>Shut up,</em> he hisses back.  His hand nearly shakes as it reaches the handle of the bathroom door.</p><p><em>This is your fault, </em>the dark voice laughs, and it sounds too similar to Moff Gideon, too familiar to Din’s nightmares.  <em>You let your guard down.  Now, Omera’s paying for your mistakes.</em></p><p>
  <em>SHUT UP—</em>
</p><p>The door to the women’s restroom slams open, the sound of wood slapping against plaster only slightly drowned out by Din’s shout of, “OMERA!”</p><p>The sight that greets him in the dim, flickering LED lighting of the dingy bathroom sends his heart skidding to a stop in his chest, where previously it had been playing Led Zeppelin covers on a drum-set and using his ribs as drumsticks.</p><p>
  <em>Holy fuck.</em>
</p><p>Omera has one man—large, gruff-looking, in a pair of chinos and a white tank top—in a fierce headlock, while another man lies unconscious on the floor with a garish welt on his forehead.</p><p>“I—SAID—WHO—DO—YOU—WORK—FOR?”</p><p>Her voice is tense and strained with effort, teeth gritted, cheeks flushed from exertion.  She’s leaning back against the wall of sinks, her back bowed as she pulls the gurgling man backwards toward her and shouts expletives into his ear: “you—<em>dumb</em>—<em>motherfu</em>—"</p><p>Again: <em>holy fuck</em>.</p><p>Alright.  Barring the obvious danger and the fleeting sense of adrenalin that has just been pounding through his veins like cheap cocaine, Din has to acknowledge something about watching his wife choke out a man who has clearly been hired to kidnap her.</p><p>It’s more of a turn-on than he’d like to admit. </p><p>It’s not often, after all, that he sees Omera leave her flower shop apron behind and exchange it for a figurative pair of MMA gloves.  She’s very clearly in control of the entire situation.</p><p>Din is taken aback for a beat, momentarily stopped dead in the doorframe of the bathroom and watching in a fair bit of rapture as his wife takes down her second of two hired thugs, squeezing the man’s windpipe until he’ll inevitably pass out in a matter of moments, upon which Din can collect her into his arms and get the hell out of here.</p><p>That is, of course, until he sees the sickening glint of a small switchblade in the muted lighting—at which point his vision goes a burning, violent red, and his blood pounds furiously in his ears.</p><p> <em>Don’t you even fucking dare, you sick motherfucker</em>.</p><p>Before he’s even aware of his own actions, Din has crossed the room in two long strides and ripped the man out of Omera’s sure hold, grabbing his left wrist and twisting the knife-toting hand until the man cries out in agony.  The small blade falls limply out of his grip and hits the floor with a metal <em>clang!</em></p><p>“Din!” Omera gasps, but he hears her as if from underwater, muted and garbled, because his focus is set entirely on the man in front of him.</p><p>The man in front of him, who promptly receives Din’s fist to his nose, and only stays upright by the bounty hunter’s grip on his collar—which loosens until Din is kneeling over him and sending blow after blow onto his already-battered face.</p><p>Karga’s voice pierces the veil of his awareness from over his shoulder, but he doesn’t make any move to stop.  The image of the blade <em>too close </em>to Omera’s ribcage flickers behind his lids, and he raises his fist again to bring it back down in fury.  The man beneath him spits out a glob of blood and at least two teeth.</p><p>“Mando—wait, hold the fuck <em>on!</em> Just—<em>Djarin!”</em></p><p>Din ignores it.  He lands a blow to the man’s jaw and hears a <em>crack</em>.  Another voice joins the fray.</p><p>“Din, hold on—Din, <em>please!</em> Din! Stop!”</p><p>Omera sounds shaky with panic, and all of a sudden, a memory assaults Din’s senses like the fiery debris of a landmine.</p><p>
  <em>“Din, I swear to—Din Djarin, don’t you DARE!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Omera’s laughter rings like tinkling bells around the apartment, bouncing off the walls like dapples of warm sunlight.  One of her hands reaches out to swat half-heartedly at his wandering fingers, while the other clutches her stomach in a futile attempt to contain the onslaught of squealing giggles that threaten to spill past her lips.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Take—it—back!” Din hisses in response, though it has no venom in it.  He reaches forward to grab her again with hands already poised to do optimum damage.  Letting out a squeal, Omera maintains her defense of squirming and slapping all various points of him she can reach, throwing her head back in laughter and letting her long hair spill over her shoulders and brush the hardwood floor beneath them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No! It’s—it’s true! But—eeeeek!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She shrieks once more as he attacks her sides—she’d evidently chosen an unsatisfactory answer.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Around them, brown cardboard boxes litter the apartment; some empty, others spilling over with various homewares, and he has to pull them both to the side to keep Omera’s head from colliding with a large box labelled LIVING ROOM.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Din encases her between his legs, effectively halting any hope she may have of escape. “Take…It…Back!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“A-absolutely n-n-not!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Another squeal erupts as he closes in on a particularly sensitive patch of skin to the right of her navel.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Okay, okay!” Omera finally wheezes, huffing a breath from the corner of her mouth to blow a piece of hair from her eyes. “Okay, I take it back! You are a very scary, dangerous man! You are absolutely NOT a teddy bear—I promise!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>At last, Din relents, lifting his arms to instead pull her firmly into his lap.  She lets out a few latent giggles as her hands encircle his neck, and her entire body sags, shoulders drooping and muscles relaxing in relief at the cessation of his onslaught.  The metal band around her finger cools the warm sensation of her touch under his ear; he shivers lightly as he tugs her flush against him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“There,” he hums softly, and he can feel the puff of her breaths on his face, “was that so hard?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Omera smiles. “Not at all.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She’s still smiling as he tilts his head forward, so the first thing he feels on his lips is the cool press of her teeth.</em>
</p><p>“…Din?”</p><p>He blinks as the world shifts.  Standing up on shaky legs and flexing his right hand, Din feels the latent sting of bruised knuckles, the rush of soreness to overused muscle.  Two men lie on the dirty floor of the bathroom; one is bloody and missing teeth, the other sporting a singular wound on his forehead.  He’d let himself get out of control.</p><p>“Fuck, Mando—two more seconds and you would’ve killed the guy.  Christ, I’m too old for this shit.”</p><p>Din ignores Karga as he turns, now calm enough—just barely—to seek Omera out and reach out his unbloodied hand to caress her cheek.  She’s standing only a foot away from him and looks shaken up; her arms are folded over her chest and she’s swaying nervously from foot to foot.  Din wants to sweep her up and take her away from here, bring her somewhere safe where nothing from his life or her past can ever touch them again.</p><p>Omera tenses briefly at the contact, and he has a momentary flash of panic that she might reject his touch after his display—she’s seen him get violent before, of course, but this has been their closest call to date, and <em>out of control</em> doesn’t even begin to cover what just happened. </p><p>Luckily, she leans into his touch gratefully, eyes shutting and shoulders drooping.  He’d wager that all of the adrenalin is leaving her body in a rush after defending herself—it’s completely understandable, of course, given the fact that she just brought hell down upon two grown men.</p><p>The man on the floor coughs up another gob of blood and then relaxes completely, clearly unconscious.</p><p><em>How the fuck did the night turn into this?</em> Din thinks angrily. <em>Can I not have two goddamn seconds of peace with my wife?</em></p><p>The reality of the situation is uncomfortable for him to confront, and it itches like coarse wool across his skin as he shakes out his right shoulder.  Din doesn’t like to let Omera see him like this, when he’s more bounty hunter than man, when the arms he uses to embrace her are swinging punches or drawing weapons.  He doesn’t like that he couldn’t stop himself.</p><p>He drinks her in, savoring the calm that washes over him at the sight of her, letting it seep into his bones and wash through his system.  One thing is painfully obvious: the man on the floor would be dead if not for her voice bringing him back to sanity.</p><p>
  <em>She never ceases to amaze.</em>
</p><p>“Are you okay, <em>querida?”</em> Din asks softly, eyes scanning her for injuries.  Another hot bolt of anger hits his bloodstream when he sees a purpling bruise on her arm. “Are you hurt?”</p><p>She sends him a small, shaky smile, belied slightly by the watering of her eyes. “I’m fine, Din.”</p><p>While it’s obvious to everyone in the room (conscious and unconscious) that Omera can handle herself, Din knows how much she hates violence.  It’s a necessary evil from her past that she doesn’t enjoy revisiting.</p><p><em>And you let her get here,</em> the little voice inside his head taunts, <em>you let your guard down.</em></p><p><em>I thought I told you to shut the fuck up</em>, he hisses back.</p><p>The last twenty minutes catch up to Din like a freight train he’s had the misfortune of stumbling in front of.  His brain jumps backward and forward in the wake of the excitement, fruitlessly attempting to piece together <em>what in the fuck just happened</em>.  Not twenty minutes ago he was sitting down and nursing a drink with his wife.</p><p>Now? He’s in the middle of a Class-A Clusterfuck.</p><p>He lands on the one outlying variable: <em>Karga.</em></p><p><em>“You—”</em> He whips around to face the man in question, who stands frozen just a few feet away.  Din’s blood is searing fiery pathways through his veins, and if he didn’t before, now he knows he could <em>kill</em>. “You brought them right to us.  Did you even check to see if you were being tailed?”</p><p>Karga shoots him a withering look. “Christ, Mando.  Do you know what I do for a living? I’ve been tailed every day since ‘Nam.” Din makes to object until Karga continues: “But if you’re asking if I knew that Imps were coming to ‘nap your wife—and sorry about that, Omera, really—the answer is a solid <em>no</em>.  Those motherfuckers are as slimy as they are insane.”</p><p>The mechanics of Din’s brain whirr and buzz as he works through the older man’s statement.  In the interim, Omera curls herself around his arm, placing her head on his shoulder and letting out a few shaky breaths.  He wraps her in a one-armed embrace on pure, lizard-brain instinct.</p><p>
  <em>No one can touch her.  She’s here.  She’s safe.  No one can touch her.</em>
</p><p>Din’s mind continues to race.</p><p>Two men came into the bar to get her—that much is plainly obvious, given that they’re currently lying unconscious in front of him.  The bounty hunter part of Din’s brain powers to life as he puts puzzle pieces together one by one: two guys to pick her up, plus one additional guy to drive the getaway car, and then, because this is the Imps we’re talking about here, at least one more guy waiting in the car—<em>no</em>.  If they even thought for a moment that they might get caught up against Din Djarin, they’d have stocked up at least two more men.</p><p>So.  Five guys.  That means a van, especially if they’re going to drag an unwilling captive into the vehicle.  Plus, the Imperial Cartel is careful—they know the area around the Skug Hole, so they know that anything they do that could appear out of the ordinary would attract unwanted attention (not from the police, of course, because the police can’t be bothered to give half a shit, but on this side of Encino, information is power and just about any streetwalker will testify what they’ve seen for the right price).  That means no logos, either.</p><p>He’s willing to bet money on it.  If they go outside the Skug Hole, they’ll find a white, unmarked van parked outside, lying in wait for the two men to bring Omera out.  The thought feels like barbed wire in his brain, striking every synapse and piercing every thought—he knows he’s right.</p><p>Call it gut instinct, call it intuition, call it <em>whatever</em>.  He knows he’s right.</p><p>Din heaves a breath. “Alright,” he says to Karga, “here’s what we’re going to do.  We’re going to get out of here through the back entrance, and then you and I—” he gestures between himself and Karga, “—are going to approach the van from behind.”</p><p>“How do you know they’re in a—”</p><p>“Because I just <em>do,</em> Karga.  Now, as I was saying: we’re gonna take one side each and hit them at the front first, because that’s where two of them will be, and then there’s gonna be a third in the back.”</p><p>
  <em>“How do you know how many—”</em>
</p><p>“Because I fucking <em>do</em>, now would you shut up? We’re running out of time.”</p><p>Karga huffs indignantly and rolls his eyes, but he shuts his mouth and gestures vaguely for Din to continue all the same.</p><p>“We’re going to take out the one in the back last, and we need at <em>least</em> one of them alive—” Din makes sure not to look at Omera during this, because it’s uncomfortable enough to beat the shit out of someone in front of her, let alone pre-meditate a double homicide, “—so we can tell him to tell Moff Gideon or whoever the fuck sent him after us: <em>don’t try this shit again.</em>”</p><p>Karga nods and cocks his pistol.  Next to Din, Omera lifts her head from his shoulder, and he can feel her gaze piercing the side of his face.</p><p>“What about me?” She asks.</p><p><em>“You,”</em> Din says slowly, turning to face her, “are going to get behind the bar and hide in whatever store-room they’ve got here until I come back and get you, and you’re not going to talk to anyone.  Alright?”</p><p>Omera’s eyes flash. “No!”</p><p>
  <em>“No?!”</em>
</p><p>“No.” She uncurls her arms from around his left one, and the room feels just a bit cooler.  Her eyes are blazing and her jaw, already sharp, is set like marble. “I’m coming with you.”</p><p><em>No, the fuck you’re not.</em>  Din chooses not to say this out loud.</p><p>“No, Omera.” <em>Much better.</em></p><p>“Yes, Din.  I’m not going to wait in here like some—some—” she waves her arms to the two men on the ground, “—like some <em>damsel,</em> which I clearly am not!”</p><p>Alright.  On the list of shit that Din Djarin doesn’t have time for, coming in hot at Number One is <em>whatever the fuck is happening right now</em>.</p><p>“You’re not coming out there, Omera,” he hisses adamantly, “it’s not <em>safe.”</em></p><p>“Well, neither is the bathroom, apparently!”</p><p>
  <em>Touché.</em>
</p><p>Omera rolls her eyes at her husband’s lack of response before kicking one of the unconscious men so that he rolls over.  The man—previously thought to be completely unconscious—lets out a feeble moan of pain, which is promptly ignored by all parties present, and Omera reaches down to grab his pistol from the back of his chinos.</p><p>“Listen,” she says calmly, but it’s that steely sort of calm that means <em>really fucking angry</em>, “I’m going to go out there with you whether you like it or not—so why not just make this easier on everyone and let me come with you?”</p><p>Din hears Karga snort amusedly into his own shoulder before muffling it quickly at the other man’s hard look.</p><p>“Fine,” he grits out, annoyed, “but you’re staying behind me the whole time, and then when we get within ten feet of the van, you’re staying behind to cover us.  Got it?”</p><p>“Got it,” she nods in confirmation. </p><p>Din plants a kiss on her forehead—never too annoyed for <em>that</em>—before breezing past Karga and making his way to the end of the dingy, unkempt hallway.  He holds one hand out behind him for Omera to take, while the other holds his Glock in front of him, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.</p><p>The door to the back entrance of The Skug Hole is a battered metal slate with a large, industrial handle and a feeble lock—not difficult to pick, even easier to break straight through.</p><p>Din goes for the latter.</p><p>The three make their way out and around the building, Din leading the pack with his eyes peeled and training on each and every vehicle he can see, waiting to see a van parked somewhere…<em>aha!</em></p><p>There it is; exactly as he’d predicted.</p><p>A large, unmarked white van sits at the corner of the street upon which The Skug Hole sits, put in park with the engine running, sitting idle but undeniably ready to peel away from the building at a moment’s notice.  He wouldn’t be surprised if it bailed any second now—it’s probably been far longer than the guys inside would have expected the kidnapping to take, so at the first sign of trouble, they’re liable to hit the gas and drive off into the night.  It’s why Din and company have to be <em>extra, extra careful—</em></p><p>All thoughts about their approach fly out of Din’s head as a soft, heart-wrenching sound breaks the quiet stillness of the Encino night.  It’s unmistakable, it’s out-of-place, and it makes his blood go cold.</p><p>It’s a baby’s cry.</p><p>Din hears Karga swear behind him, and at the same time, he feels Omera’s hand come up to grip his arm tightly.  Her voice hits his ears in a whisper, unveiled in its horror.</p><p>“Din.” Even her murmur is trembling, like she can’t bear to let the words leave her mouth lest they become real and true. “Din, I think they’ve got kids in that van.”</p><p>
  <em>Well, this changes everything.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hope you enjoyed!! Also, I /told you/ the kiddos would appear. And so they shall. And don't worry - they'll be fine!!!</p><p>&amp; I know it would be more accurate to Sanctuary if this was Cara Dune instead of Greef Karga, but I don't like Gina Carano or her Q-Anon anti-masker-ass bullshit so I made it Karga instead &lt;3 </p><p>lmk what you thought! My new idea for this is they-get-the-kids-and-then-they-all-have-misguided-80s-adventures type of thing</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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